


The Emperor's Hands

by platoapproved



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Body Image, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Slash, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 09:12:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5328659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/platoapproved/pseuds/platoapproved
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maia knew, from the wonder-tales he had read as a child, from the arias that Min Vechin used to sing, what falling in love was supposed to feel like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Emperor's Hands

**Author's Note:**

> This may well be the sappiest thing I have ever written. Maybe I will write more? It is also possible I will not, since I am fickle and have other works in progress I ought to be completing.

Maia had never fallen in love. He had loved plenty of people—his mother, Idra and his sisters, Osmerrem Danivaran, Csevet, his nohecherai—and he had felt bodily attraction. But being in love, supposedly, was more than the sum of those parts. He knew, from the wonder-tales he had read as a child, from the arias that Min Vechin used to sing, how it was supposed to feel. Falling in love was said to be thus named because it felt like falling from a great height. It was supposed to come over one in a rush, like a wildfire, to burn in a way that was unmistakable—more agony than comfort, more madness than happiness.

All in all, it sounded rather harrowing and unpleasant.

He had accepted the fact that he would never fall in love, as he had accepted the fact that he had no skill for magic: it was not something he could change, and thus, not worth dwelling upon. Besides, for Maia, every sign of affection, from any quarter, was still startling and incomprehensible. There were such a great many people who cared about him, now. He was on good terms with Csethiro and no longer dreaded the prospect of marrying her. Cooperation, mutual respect, and fondness were already more than he had hoped for. He did not need, or indeed want, a great romance.

A small part of Maia—the part that spoke with Setheris’ voice—thought that it was for the best. Telling himself that love was a complication he could not afford as emperor was a useful shield to protect himself from the reality of how unlikely it was that anyone could possibly fall in love with him.

Lately, Maia had been trying to remove these sorts of hateful thoughts from his mind. He knew they were the legacy of his cousin’s cruelty, but that did not make it easy to uproot them. Setheris’s bile had had years to bury itself deep within his mind, and when Maia was tired or upset, it became harder to recognize where his thoughts ended and Setheris’s words began.

Maia kept this conflict to himself. While it was true that Cala, Beshelar, and Csevet all knew that Setheris had mistreated him, that did not mean they would understand. Easy enough, for them to grasp why their emperor hated the man who had bullied and beat him. He imagined it would be harder for them to comprehend why he sometimes believed he had deserved it, believed himself every bit the moon-witted hobgoblin Setheris had always accused him of being.

But he could not guard his thoughts indefinitely. Late one night, after two solid hours of attempting to write a speech for the ceremonial opening of the Wisdom Bridge, Maia paused to stretch his cramping hand, and muttered, “How ugly our hands are,” beneath his breath.

Maia had not thought that Csevet would hear him. He had been working for even longer than Maia had, and was seated practically at the other end of the long table. Maia knew he had been wrong the moment the words were past his lips; Csevet looked up as sharply as if Maia had shouted. Csevet’s constant attentiveness was a double-edged sword.

Ears lowering in embarrassment, Maia blurted, “Please, ignore us. We did not mean to speak aloud.”

Maia hoped fervently that Csevet would let the moment pass without comment. He could feel Csevet’s eyes on him, and forced himself to look up from the table. Instead of disapproval—or, worse, agreement—he saw nothing in Csevet’s expression but gentle confusion. 

“Serenity, surely you cannot really believe that?”

A sudden flush spread up Maia’s neck and across his face, hot and shameful. He wanted to get up and bolt from the room, only he knew that was beneath his dignity as emperor, and besides, he needed to finish the speech. He pulled his hands off the table and knotted them together in his lap, staring down at them. His hands repulsed him. The grilles of the Alcethmeret were closed for the night, and his edocharei had already removed his jewelry; there were no rubies or diamonds to draw the eye away from his hated knuckles, from the darkness of his skin.

The last thing he wanted to do was reveal more of himself than he already had, but he could not bring himself to lie to Csevet. Not trusting to his voice, Maia gave the barest of shrugs.

He did not know what he expected to happen after that, but Csevet getting up from his seat and drawing close was not it. If it had been anyone else, Maia might have felt intimidated, but it was Csevet. Out of everyone in the world, Csevet was the person Maia trusted the most. So, Maia knew that it must be embarrassment, rather than fear, that made his heart race when Csevet half-perched on the arm of his sturdy chair. The gesture struck Maia as uncharacteristically informal, for Csevet—a thought that was only compounded when Csevet actually reached down and tugged gently at Maia’s wrist. Maia, too surprised to protest, unlaced his fingers and let Csevet pull his hand from his lap.

“Serenity, we—” Csevet broke off. There was something peculiar in his voice that made Maia look up. Csevet’s cheeks and ears had gone pink. Deliberately, gracefully, he took Maia’s hand in his and drew it up to his lips. Csevet placed a single kiss on Maia’s knuckles, his mouth a brief, soft warmth.

Maia swallowed, hard. He felt as if the bottom had dropped out of his stomach. His heart seemed to be beating so quickly and ferociously that he was surprised it had not burst. He knew what an idiot he must appear, staring wide-eyed at Csevet, but he could not school his expression. Not when he had just realized, in a sudden, swooping rush, that he felt like he was falling from a great height.

His first thought was, simply: _Oh._

His second thought was: _Oh no._


End file.
